


Whistling Shell

by doctorcolubra



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorcolubra/pseuds/doctorcolubra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sacrifices we make for money aren't always worth it.   The Captain wants a piece of the red honey trade, and in order to secure her place with the smugglers, she sells something away that can't be bought back.  Or can it?  </p><p>(Spoilers for the end of Zaira's and the Irrepressible Cannoneer's questlines.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we'd fire no guns, shed no tears

**Author's Note:**

> Right, you saw the spoiler warning in the summary. If you haven't played that far in the game, bookmark this and finish the quests. I'll wait right here.
> 
> As the Masters would like me to point out, Sunless Sea is property of Failbetter Games, and this is an unofficial fan work.
> 
> There's also an [8tracks mix](http://8tracks.com/tocryabout/whistling-shell), because I like sea songs.
> 
> 10/19/17: This story has been updated to reflect the Cannoneer's actual pronouns. Hurrah!

There's a tune the Cannoneer likes to whistle, whenever we're in sight of the bright green jewel-box of Aestival, or the darker swamp forests of the Sea of Autumn. Not so strange; the other zailors liven up in the air of the Calumnies too, and they all look forward to gathering crates of greens when we sail into port at Mangrove College. But the Cannoneer whistles that same tune when we're under the hand of the Iron Republic, cutting the prow-light to hide from Unfinished pirates and Republican dreadnoughts. The hot wind smells of coal and coffee today, the factory-engines billow foul smoke, and the air flutters with a snowfall of voided paperwork thrown carelessly out the windows. My first time here, I picked up one of those paper scraps from the deck: a torn infernal contract in writhing black type, stamped by a few administrators with glyphs that I didn't care to study. The crewman who's keeping the deck free of cinders and glimfall today also picks up these scraps of paper and gathers them up in a brass bucket to use for firestarters. "They do take awful quick, most of 'em," she says. "They'll singe your eyebrows off. Some don't burn at all, though."

But there's the Cannoneer whistling, a slip jig that bounces and shrills on the higher notes. They're polishing the heart-metal armature of the new forward gun, a job they don't entrust to the rest of the crew. Not that any of the crew want to touch that shining horror of a weapon, which emits a dull, hungry growl. 

"Nearly done, citizen?" I ask them.

They don't hear, but when they catch sight of me in their peripheral vision they straighten up with that familiar grin. "Hello! Did you want to speak with me, captain? I don't hear much out of that ear, I'm afraid. Always try me on the left side, if you don't mind!"

That explains their jovial but incessant shouting, actually: half-deafened by bombs and guns, they no longer know how loud they sound. I move closer so that they can keep my lips in view. "We'll be pulling into the harbour soon. I don't care to engage those Unfinished Men off the port side, as they're easy enough to evade with the lights out. But we might pass a Behemoustache off Port Carnelian."

"Oh, lovely! Thank you, madam!" The Cannoneer is always delighted to have a chance to shoot at the zee-beasts instead of fleeing, and the Behemoustache is one of their favourites, even though they say it's not very challenging. "What a lovely day! Not going anywhere near the Fathomking's Hold later, are we? I could get you that Fluke-Core you've been wanting..."

"Soon." Even armed with the Cannoneer's evil ordnance, I hate the thought of squaring off against a Lorn-Fluke, ramming the ship and screaming its star-speech madness. It makes me want to hang over the side and puke like a lubber. But the colossal irrigo core of the beast is worth too much, to some people. 

I have to turn away from the weapon, which seems to watch me. "What do you know about that gun your friend wants to build? The lady here in the Republic."

The Cannoneer blinks, as if this description could suit any number of people they know. Then: "Oh, d'you mean the Artificer?"

"Yes."

"Well, the cost of ammunition is...I shouldn't say! No doubt it'll be a great blaze of rarefaction when the thing goes off—she's absolutely _demented_ , it's marvellous—but you wouldn't use it every day. Did you want to hunt Mount Nomad?"

"Dear God, no."

"Of course, of course. Then you shan't find much use for the Icarus in Black, I expect. This beauty will do all you need," the Cannoneer says, rubbing the polishing-cloth coaxingly over the armature. Careful not to touch the star-metal itself with bare skin. Even the Cannoneer has some caution. "Anything else? I have lists, if you—"

"Nothing else," I interrupt them. Once they start in on their lists, that's half my day gone. But I do have a serious concern that I wish to discuss in private. Two such concerns, perhaps. "Would you dine with me tonight, in my quarters? Cook has some fancies available, if there's anything you have a fondness for..."

"Oh, no thank you!" Still smiling. They always refuse with that smile, a little flustered. "I don't eat much! But I do have some novel ideas for the pneumatic ratsender, if you could get me a few to practice with."

God only knows what those novel ideas are, but it's safest to keep the Cannoneer well-occupied. I wouldn't like to see what they're like when they're bored. "Next time we're at Wolfstack. But I am in earnest, citizen. Even if you don't eat much, I should like to have you at my table this evening."

"Oh." The grin falters for a moment, apprehensive, but then it flickers back to full wattage. They shrug. "As the captain wishes! Thank you, madam. But don't put Cook to any trouble, please. It would be quite wasted on me."

"Six bells, then." The Bandaged Poissonnier would feel slighted if I didn't let him make a fuss, I know, so I plan to leave the meal-planning to his discretion. 

"Six bells. Have a pleasant time in port, captain!"

"At the Iron Republic? I always do," I reply dryly, and head belowdecks again.

 

Taking the port report at the Republic leaves me with a splitting headache, so after negotiating with the merchants in their doctrine-masks for a load of coffee, I take to my quarters. For an hour; the Republic isn't the kind of port where one likes to linger, and manoeuvring out of the tight harbour takes attention. The Carnelian Exile can handle it. I wish a safer port were close by, but it's the expensive hubbub of the Cumaean Canal to the north and the sinister Isle of Cats to the east. _Rest in London. Won't be long._

I dress for dinner, in the one spider-silk gown I brought to zee with me, which is trimmed with whisper-satin from Polythreme, or so I was told in the shop. I have my doubts, as the dress doesn't whisper so much as sigh disconsolately now and then. That has its charms, or so I tell myself. 

And I would rather like to be charming, for awhile. Even when I'm in London, these days I spend all my free evenings at home, sleeping off the nightmares. My housekeeper knows my townhouse better than I do, and welcomes me home as if I'm a guest, not the lady of the house. My old acquaintances from Veilgarden have scattered since last year; they love a funeral but they despise the tedious aftermath, and I haven't seen them since.

But charming, yes, tonight I will be charming. I pinch some colour into my cheeks and head for the captain's table.

The Cannoneer is on time at six bells, but flushed as though punctuality was a near thing this evening. They've come straight from the workshop, a space they share with the Tireless Mechanic. The two seem to have a subtle rivalry that I don't understand; I would have thought they'd be great friends, a spiritual kinship from shared love of metal and fire. But they aren't. 

The Cannoneer does a double-take at my spider-silk gown, looking both intrigued and alarmed, and tries to surreptitiously wipe some artillery grease off their hand with their sleeve. "Oh—ah, beg pardon, madam—I didn't realise we were...I can go dress for dinner, won't be long!"

"No, please, it's quite all right," I tell them. "I didn't expect you to be in evening dress."

"Really, captain, please—fifteen minutes or less, I promise!" And the Cannoneer takes off aftward for their quarters at a dead run, skidding as they take the corner.

However they managed it, they reappear in fifteen minutes looking cleaner, dark hair damp at the margins but more or less combed (apparently with their fingers, but still). They've changed their shirt and trousers, and are wearing an old but clean waistcoat I haven't seen before: double-breasted brown silk—can it be from the Surface?—woven in a scalloped pattern like fish-scales, such that it almost looks quilted. It has a bullet hole below the right armpit, but otherwise it's in fine condition. The grin is back, dazzling. "Just in time! Apologies, captain, I haven't sat down to any sort of table of quality since I left the University. How exciting!"

I'm pleased that they made the effort, and we sit down at the captain's table. "Was this at Benthic College? What did you study?"

"Oh, you know." It's one of those topics they like to shrug past. "Infernal Rarefactions. What else, eh? I'm the type. A bit too much of the type! I found other people who appreciated my work, so it all turned out fine in the end, didn't it? All shall be well, and all shall be well."

"All manner of things shall be well," I agree. It's hard to picture them as an academic, even the maddened kind. My fingertips rest on the stem of my wineglass to steady it as the Poissonnier bustles over to decant some Morelways 1872. 

"Parasite-mushroom sacs stuffed with grilled whale-cheese, mixed Whithern summer mosses, and thelodont roe," the Poissonnier announces proudly as he fills the Cannoneer's glass in turn. "After the sea-lily soup, naturally. Very light dinner, suitable for delicate digestions and constrained appetites."

I thank the Poissonnier, who brings out the soup. I don't eat like this every evening, but ever since the Brisk Campaigner came aboard with her expensive tastes, I've felt like the other officers deserve the same luxuries when they dine with me. These dinners are rare, and it dispels the darkness to have fare better than weevil-ridden ship's biscuit and bland lumps of megalops-flesh.

The soup is delicately spiced with mutersalt, enough to quiet the Cannoneer for a few minutes. I study them as I haven't had much chance to do thus far: they're always in motion, never sitting still long enough to be looked at, always shuffling lists and yelling cheerful commands to the crew. Truth be told, I find that grin of theirs a bit unnerving, so I've been trying not to let my gaze fall on them for too long. But there's nothing wrong with their appearance: their nose looks like they've spent time in Feducci's prizefighting ring (possible), but they have a wide, mobile mouth and almond-shaped dark eyes that could be quite pretty. Scars on the knuckles, definitely from Watchmaker's Hill, two fingers missing on the left hand, probably from explosives. 

I could take them to bed, I think, and forget all about the sweetheart Salt took from me. For awhile. Long enough, maybe. Something to tire me out enough that the nightmares can't reach me. The Mechanic isn't interested—I think he finds me too earnest, or too naive—and I'm afraid to find out if tomb-colonists can still...yes. One does hear stories, but I'm simply not very experimental on that subject. I haven't been at zee _that_ long. The Cannoneer would do, if willing. I rather think they are; I've seen them watching me in odd moments.

When the mutersalt has worn off and we can speak again, over the stuffed mushroom sacs, I ask them more about themself. "Are you fond of the Iron Republic?" 

"I have friends there. Well—yes, friends, I suppose," they say, putting their elbows on the table for half a second before remembering. They eat with the fork in the right hand, but manage the knife with their left in spite of the missing fingers. "Colleagues. Former colleagues. But I do rather like the Republic, I think. They appreciate an elegant bomb, you know! In fact—no, we shouldn't talk about that."

"Why?" I ask bluntly, growing tired of hearing them shrug off questions with that response. "What would happen if you did?"

The Cannoneer has their mouth full, but when they swallow, they say, "I'd have fewer friends."

"I'm no gossip, citizen. You may trust me. You've already said that you built enough bombs for clients that you were thrown out of Benthic College. Some of those clients must have been revolutionaries?"

They shrug. Their grin has dwindled to a nervous half-smile. "I suppose they must! I didn't ask questions—well, not about my clients themselves. I asked about payload and fragmentation and—"

"Then what of the Iron Republic?" Their story is beginning to fall into place. "What use did they have for your bombs, as accomplished as you are in the art? As we all saw in the Campaign of '68, Hell has weaponry enough to swat London like a fly."

The Cannoneer stays quiet for the space of several heartbeats, the longest silence I've heard from them in response to a question. Finally, they say, "The devils were middle-men. They could pay me better than the common revolutionaries, so they did, and then they jacked up the price when they resold the bombs to the Calendar Council. The Calendar Council pays in souls, you see. But once the Council got wind of that deal, they weren't very happy. They tried to negotiate with the Brass Embassy directly—but the devils don't like to sell their own weapons abroad. The most masterful infernal designs...someone like me could reverse-engineer them." 

This may be true—the Cannoneer's confidence is usually well-founded—and their tone is wistful.

"So the Council came to me, and I sold a few oddments to them. I didn't care very much about the money, but you can't go on building things without new materials!" They chuckle. "So the Calendar Council paid, and I cashed the souls in at the Bazaar, as one does. Well, now the Brass Embassy was peeved at me, and demanded I make full restitution of the souls they thought they should have got...'they're ours by right,' all that usual talk. Devils, eh?" 

Indeed. "And you were ejected from Benthic?"

"Things got quite unpleasant for a few months! Quite unpleasant. I smoothed things over with the devils, because I prefer to work with them. They appreciate originality. The revolutionaries are always so concerned about whether their operatives will know how to set it off, if it's a new design. User error, and so on. So you have to build the same thing over and over, and the only challenge is finding out ways to make them smaller or less likely to be found in a Constables' search. Anyway. The anarchists were very cross indeed and there was nothing I could do to mollify them. They tattled on me to Benthic—I _think_ it was them, anyway—so I left before the learned burly gentlemen from the registrar's office could encourage me to withdraw. I rather burned a bridge or two on my way out." They gesture with their fork. "You see why putting to zee began to seem so attractive?"

At no point in this whole story have they said a single thing about the victims of their lovingly-crafted bombs. Naval combat has its own code of honour, as Father used to tell me; enemy ships must be sunk or captured, but their crew then become men in peril, and the code of the sea (he meant the Surface sea) required the winning ship to aid them. And yet a bomb on land is very different from a torpedo on the zee: a bomb blast can easily deal out the true death, leaving its victims in pieces that ensure they will never leave the slow boat on the silent river. The Cannoneer had an academic interest, but shouldn't they take the danger and the consequences more seriously? Shouldn't they have had a better reason than the sheer joy of creating such weapons?

My own appetite is dwindling too, even though the roe gleams a deep cosmogone in the stuffed mushroom sacs. "Had you no loyalties to anyone?" 

"Well—" They stumble over the question. "We had such a tidy arrangement at first! I hardly thought I needed to choose a side. What's wrong with a diverse circle of friends? It's such a joy to build something terrible, you know—perhaps I can't explain it."

"Perhaps you can't." Not that I yearn to understand such things. I change the subject to business. "You remember the engine that the Mechanic wishes to build, of course?"

"Oh yes." Guarded enthusiasm. "A jolly fine thing to have, if he can actually build it."

"He needs a piece of the Dawn Machine. Or some...excretion of the Dawn Machine, or...I don't know what the thing is. An element of dawn, it's called. The Commodore down at the Grand Geode is willing to sell us one, at an exorbitant price that I refuse to pay. Fifty crates of supplies, vital intelligence, _seven_ of my own crew."

"Blimey, that's steep," the Cannoneer says.

"Entirely too steep. The alternative...he is quite interested in purchasing the Memento Mori. He'd give us an element in return, along with other valuables." I finish my glass of wine and decant another. "Would you be terribly put out if I were to sell it to him?"

I have succeeded in shocking my Cannoneer. "But—I don't—is it not what you were hoping? Because with a few enhancements to the rest of the ship—"

"No, no," I interrupt. "It's a very...it's very effective. You did fine work, you and your colleagues." As these things go. The Cannoneer is always _effective_. "But engine speed and fuel efficiency are dreadfully important—"

"You've barely seen it in action, captain!" The Cannoneer is pleading. "Why, I could take the Tree of Ages with this and the deck gun! You wouldn't even need the Icarus in Black! Even in this little ship, I could get you the heart of Mount Nomad—with minor hull damage, of course, but survivable! It could be done!"

"I'm not some Chelonite monster-hunter, citizen," I say, sharper than I mean to be. "Taking Mount Nomad's heart is a fool's errand. I came to zee to make profitable runs of coffee and sphinxstone and sunlight, and if that dried-up old curator in Venderbight will pay for a Fluke-Core then I suppose I'll get it one. Somehow. But I want a Caligo-class soon, and I need an efficient engine to run it."

"I'll pay out of my own pocket for the element," says the Cannoneer, suddenly inspired. "Fifty crates of supplies, I can cover that out of my saved pay—I'll hire the extra crew, and as for the intelligence...well, I do still know people from the old days. They hear things. You can have both, madam, the Memento Mori and the Mechanic's engine! What a deal, eh?"

"I'll consider it." I wish for a few more grains of mutersalt, because this conversation has left me with a slippery feeling of guilt and disappointment. But all I have is this Morelways vintage, so I keep drinking, and ask them to tell me stories of Benthic.

They drink too, and tell me of cricket matches with the Brass Embassy Ladies, and having to publicly punch the chaplain of Summerset after losing a match and a wager. They tell me how they lost their fingers, trying to demonstrate a fellow student's thesis that Congreve rockets could be used to deliver mail in London. (They can't be.) Debates in the campus public-houses and common rooms, a friendly rivalry with the Department of Venomous Rarefaction that had a comically high body count. Waking in their rooms after a trip playing chess with the boatman, only to find that they had less than ten minutes to get to an important oral exam. Successful experiments and failed ones, setting the Dean's gown on fire on three non-consecutive occasions. "He rather lost his sense of humour after that! I have no idea why. It only got funnier."

"It's just as well," I tell them, over the solacefruit sorbet. I'm getting a bit sloppy. "I'm very glad to have you aboard here, citizen. Have I ever told you that? But don't set me on fire, please. No matter how funny it is."

"Well, you always keep well back, which is what I _told_ him to do..." The Cannoneer has brightened again after the tales and wine. "But yes, it was all for the best. All shall be well, and all shall be well—"

"And all _manner_ of things shall be well," I say fervently, reaching for the carafe again and finding it empty. My clumsy fingers knock it over, a few dark drops spotting the tablecloth, and they reach over to right the carafe again. Their hand touches mine—it's their left, and the smooth stumps of the two missing fingers strike me as sad and endearing. 

I might have straightway asked them to meet me someplace more private, but then I notice a familiar scar on their wrist, peeking out from under their shirt cuff. Years ago, my mother came home with a scar like that on her wrist and a load of nevercold brass. She'd got a good price, she told us, but the light was gone from her eyes. For weeks she wouldn't get out of bed, and when she did, she took up laudanum and prisoner's honey.

"Your soul," I murmur, tracing the scar on the Cannoneer's wrist. It chills me. And yet I should have known. After spending years at Benthic and dealing with devils, it would have been more remarkable if they'd managed to hang onto it. No wonder they felt free to double-cross their old contacts, no wonder they seem to think that explosives are a neutral hobby on par with fungal-gardening or collecting beetles. There's nothing left in them that would mind.

I meet their dark eyes, and I know that this dalliance won't make me forget my troubles. Too many things about this person unsettle me. I draw my hand back and pick up my napkin, folding it next to my plate. "Well. Thank you for a very pleasant dinner, citizen. I shan't keep you too late. Long day's zailing tomorrow."

They don't seem to understand what just happened, but they sit back as well. "Yes. Yes! Of course, right. Thank you very much, captain—a lovely evening, lovely dinner."

I see them to the door and watch them go for a second before I turn back to my own quarters. Time to sleep this off.


	2. go down, you blood red roses

In spite of the Cannoneer's offer, I sell the Memento Mori to the Commodore. He pays as well as I'd hoped: the element, a shining-pale spore that might one day be a Judgement, and a round thousand echoes. 

"Our Light will grow stronger. Not only as our fleet grows stronger," says the Commodore, with smooth assurance. "There are many doors that bar our ascent: but the Red Science is the key to many locks. We thank you. Our Light thanks you. Go now, and grow bright."

The Mechanic is grateful and promises that things are coming right along, and that as soon as we resolve a few other little matters he can build the engine. He's very apologetic about all the trouble.

"It _is_ a shame to lose such a fine weapon," I admit as we pull away from the Geode. The Cannoneer isn't on deck. "I felt a good bit safer pulling past those eels in the Principles when we had it."

The Mechanic shrugs. "With a good enough engine, you don't need to shoot anybody," he says.

But we still need echoes to get the project off the ground, and these days I don't trust myself around the mirrorcatch boxes full of sunlight. Even in a locked hold, the light draws me: after our last run to the Surface, I was opening box after box even though the light seared me. The crew had to overpower me and throw the boxes overboard—ten of them. I cried and swore and bit, but the black zee swallowed up the boxes full of light all the same. Several days later, I woke up from a haze of laudanum in the sick bay, with a straight horizontal scar across my neck, like the narrow band of light that shows under a door in a dark room. 

So no more sunlight. But the Isle of Cats is close, and we can still move red honey if we win the approval of the local underworld. We need the echoes—we need them very badly, in fact, after losing our shirts on the sunlight deal.

"This trade will be an expensive one too, I expect," the Carnelian Exile says in her quiet, distant voice, standing by the rail watching the shore.

I understand her on this point better than I often do; from what we've seen, the Isle of Cats prefers to temper its smugglers by asking for high deposits and risky gestures to prove our trustworthiness. "If the price is too dear then we simply can't do it."

"Then what?" she asks, her eyes behind her dark glasses still trained on the shore.

"Then we hobble home and trade the ship in for a smaller one," I murmur, because the words are so bitter in my mouth that I can't speak them any louder. "We may even get our old steamer back. And we start over. Patience is a virtue, people tell me."

"Patience is the only virtue," says the Exile, and she gives me a faint smile before turning to go back to the bridge.

 

But the Lady of the Gardens doesn't ask for money.

Zaira is deadheading the roses in this garden of horrors, as if she doesn't see or hear the weeping and muttering of the prisoners. She has little scrapes on her fingers from the thorns; she's not wearing the same kind of thick mask and gloves as the other sisters, only that short gold-mesh veil across her eyes. Perhaps the bees are trained not to sting her. Or else her mind and memories do not attract them. I'd believe either explanation.

She is pleased to see us, and even seems to remember who I am. "Good. You're here." She caresses one deep-bellied bloom that holds a nectar-drunk bee within its petals, and snips off a withered blossom beside it. "I'd like a new addition to the Garden. Could I borrow one of your crew? Well. _Have_ one, really. I doubt you'd want them back, after."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your crew," she repeats, not looking up from her rosebush. "Or a prisoner, I suppose. You _are_ a prison ship bound for Wisdom, aren't you? No? No. Oh, well. I'd still prefer crew. Prisoners sometimes have exciting memories but we're rather full up on crimes at the moment. There was a fad for that. Leopold says voyages will be the next thing. He has such an eye for fashion."

"But I—" It's such an outrageous request that I don't know how to answer. I'm no expert on red honey, but I know how it's made. I know _somebody_ has to suffer excruciatingly for the profits I'll be making, but...

"It's quite a normal thing. Captains leave prisoners and crew here all the time," Zaira assures me. "How else do you suppose all these people came here in the first place? Well, of course, some are former smugglers who displeased Leopold. Or Isery. Or me. But many are donated by captains."

"Lady, we're zailing with a skeleton crew as it is. If I gave up a crew member—not that—but if I _did_ we'd be limping at half-speed. Our supplies are low and the crew we have left..." Too many of our crew are close to madness, and I suppose being here in the Cage Garden isn't helping them sleep soundly. If I put to zee with this small crew, at half-speed, with short rations, we'd not make it back to London. 

Zaira waves a hand. "That's a zee-captain's business, it doesn't concern me. I don't know anything about it. I've frequently not been on boats. Is that right? No. Anyway. The bees need new memories." 

A Melliferous Sister standing nearby, one with a clearer head than Zaira, offers a more detailed explanation. "We must keep the prisoners alive for a certain period after they've been harvested—otherwise the honey-vial becomes occluded, and the effect is...dulled. Dead memories are less valuable. So once the last vial comes out of the honey-spinner, we keep the prisoner alive and watch to see when they begin to convulse. That's how we know the honey's been consumed, and after that it's safe to let the prisoner die. And we need new ones to replace the old."

"Oh, thank you, Renata, you explain things so well. I always get muddled up." Zaira smiles at the other sister. "So you understand us, captain. If you wish to be part of our business, you have to contribute. Now. Who would you like to give to me?"

 _Surely it's not too late to refuse and wash my hands of this whole affair,_ I think, but I know that it is. If I leave the Isle of Cats having made no progress in this venture, then I've wasted time, fuel, and supplies, with no hope in sight of making my money back. I could plead with the King's Claw to accept my service, but who's to say Isery would be any less demanding than Zaira? What if what they ask is worse?

I rub the scar on my neck. "It can't be a zailor," I tell Zaira, my mouth dry. "As I said, we need them all. The whole ship could go down if I lose one."

"And you have no prisoners."

"No. No, it will—it must be one of my officers." I still have the Sly Navigator to supplant the Exile, if I had to make such an unprofitable exchange, and the Genial Magician has been lurking belowdecks, lending occasional assistance to the Tireless Mechanic. I could lose one of them. Not the Mechanic, I hope. We've put so much work into building his engine.

Zaira smiles, her bitten lips gleaming wet in the light from her bee-lantern. "Tell me about them. One by one."

So I tell her. My Sly Navigator, who I've known for years, his dog-eared charts and his dream of seeing Frostfound. My Exile, who came aboard at the Grand Geode and of whom I know very little. My Campaigner, still ill with the animescence that scorches her from within. My Mechanic and his stolen secret. My Magician and his vendetta against the Fingerkings. My Bandaged Poissonnier and his restaurant in Venderbight. My Cannoneer...

"Oh, a gunner? From the Iron Republic?" Zaira takes an interest. None of the others have appealed to her yet. "Not a devil, are they?"

"No—no, they're not _from_ the Iron Republic. I shouldn't think so, anyway." That isn't possible, is it? No. "They're a Londoner, or...well, they haven't said they're not." The Cannoneer would have mentioned it before now if they were from the Surface, I think. "Formerly of the Department of Infernal Rarefactions at Benthic College. They have colleagues in the Republic, that's all. Built bombs for them." 

"Mm, how very interesting." Zaira sets her garden-shears down. "A gunner who built bombs with the devils of the Iron Republic—yes, that's something I've never tasted. I'd quite like to. Very exciting. Yes, they would do."

Shamefully, a part of me is relieved. I won't have any opportunity to find out if the Cannoneer's flexible morals would let them betray us the same way they sold out the revolutionaries. I won't have to wonder what favours they might have left in Hell, whether to give out or cash in. Still, I ought to try to talk Zaira out of it. "They are, ah, missing a soul..."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," she says breezily. "Our bees are only interested in memories, not souls. They're not _that_ sort of bee."

As I lead her back to the corner of the garden where the rest of the crew is gathered, I think back to when the Cannoneer first completed the Memento Mori, the way their grin faded and left them looking lost. _I'm not sure what to do now._ Their masterwork is complete, and it's not the sort of victory that can ever be repeated: there are no other seals of the Red Science lying around for them to weaponise, and we should all be grateful for that. What is left for them? Perhaps this is a mercy.

The Cannoneer seems glad to see me, and maybe even seems uncomfortable with the garden, even though they only call it "jolly strange." I don't know how much fear or pity they're capable of; loss of the soul affects everyone differently, as the doctor told us after seeing to my mother. Some are lucky and barely seem different at all. Others grow melancholy, others grow hard. 

I have to explain it to them. "We won't be able to join in the trade, you see, unless we contribute someone to the garden."

"We've been doing that, haven't we? The coal, the supplies?"

"The Lady wants a prisoner." I should have put it bluntly to begin with. "We've no one in the brig, of course. We can't spare a zailor."

"Well—" The Cannoneer looks down the row of cages, under their tangles of roses and thorns. "If you corner her down that way she'll be out of earshot from these other nuns, so we could take her two on one..."

"I'm not going to fight her."

"No, captain, not you yourself, but those two Khaganian zailors we have could—"

"I mean none of us are going to fight," I tell them. This is excruciating. "It would do no good. We need the echoes very badly at the moment, and the red honey trade is our best opportunity. Hurting Lady Zaira would make us persona non grata on the island."

The Cannoneer looks baffled. "Then what did you ask me for, captain?"

"She wants you." I want to look away, but I can't, and I see the expressions chase one another across their face: confusion, disbelief, and then a burst of grief and rage behind their eyes.

If I'd been looking away, I wouldn't have known to duck. They take a swing, and yes, those scars on their knuckles had to have come from Feducci's. If they were thinking straight that would have been quite a blow. As it is, two wiry Melliferous Sisters swarm over and grab them by the arms, and they don't try to break the grip. The Cannoneer is white with shock and anger, and hurt too. 

"Please, you must understand," I say as the Sisters drag them away, "I had no good choices left to me, and you—you've already accomplished something legendary, so—so it's best to—"

"Did you think I had nothing else left that I wanted? I had lists—please, _please_ , captain, no—"

Zaira hushes them, touching their wide mouth with all four fingers. The cage is standing open and ready, a dark and rooty space overgrown with roses, but those bars are solid steel. "There, now, don't carry on, dear heart. And you mustn't think of trying anything. That's happened before, many times. I'm quite sure of it."

I've had enough. "Take one of the zailors instead, my Lady, please—I'll take the risk to the ship, but don't—"

"No. You're ours now, aren't you?" Zaira says, not looking at me. She closes the door of the cage and uses one of the silver keys at her waist to lock it. "Saltpetre and lit matches. Hot iron. What memories you must have. Sipping them will be like swallowing an explosion, all fire and light."

One of the sisters has a ledger-book in hand. "May 7, 1893. Acquisition. Provenance...your name, madam?"

The Cannoneer is still staring at me from behind the bars of the cage. I stutter on my reply. "My—yes. Eleanor Miskimmin. Captain Eleanor Miskimmin."

"Vessel?"

"The _Passe-Partout._ " It's a strange name for a Neath ship, but my father was a Surface captain before he came to London. The _Passe-Partout_ was his first ship, built in Halifax. 

"And the Acquisition's name?"

I do know my Cannoneer's real name; they signed it in my log when they first came aboard. Neathers know the power of a name. When kept private, or rarely used, names become part of the currency of secrets. But on this island they trade real names freely, Zaira and Isery and Leopold. "Casey Salter. I'm sorry, I must get back to my ship," I tell the sister. "We shall return after we make port in London and refuel."

"Very good, madam. The Lady will be ready to meet you then," says the sister, writing in her ledger. "We don't need anything more from you now."

I turn my back on the Cannoneer and walk away. Next time I come to the gardens, they won't even recognise me. That's best. That's best.

All shall be well...

 

The pay is insulting.

A hundred echoes. For a human being. That and a few fragments of a secret are our recompense for losing our gunnery officer. 

Not only does it make the entire venture a sick joke, it also leaves us in a very tight spot. I'd been expecting a thousand echoes—the merchant in London gives us that much for such inconsequential items as coffee or zee-beast teeth, if we catch him on the right day. The curator in Venderbight once paid a thousand merely to examine a particular ugly scar I once got at the Chapel of Lights. My gunnery officer was a human being, and moreover they were a genius—they built something dire and incomparable, and I've been very nervous knowing that the Dawn Machine's people have it now.

A hundred echoes. It's barely enough to buy supplies to get home.

Thus, in desperation, I search Salter's quarters. Or to use a more accurate verb, I salvage. We're docked at Fieldhaven in Shepherd's Wash, where a lazy harbour provisioner will take dry goods in return for victuals. "Just this once, mind," he warns. "Don't come 'round here again expecting a pawn shop."

It sounds cold and it is cold, but Salter won't be needing a spare pair of boots anymore, nor will they need shirts, flannels, handkerchiefs, trousers, braces, collars, or all these other things that the crew can't eat. They have books as well, but I doubt the harbour provisioner will be interested. Worth a go, anyway. I find three scientific books ( _The Fulminator's Desk Reference and Almanac_ , _Congelation and Calcination vol. CVIII_ , and _Torpedo War, and Submarine Explosions_ by Robert Fulton), and a child's picture-book with worn covers, titled _Guns at Sea_ and featuring attractive pictures of ships-of-the-line, Lord Nelson, John Paul Jones and the like. Surface work, from before London fell. Pictures of ships with sails, in daylight. They might enjoy that sort of thing in Venderbight, where the nearly-dead are hungry for memories of the sky.

So much for the contents of the wardrobe. I strike the lock off Salter's sea-chest with a hammer and crack the lid open.

The top tray has a Bible, which surprises me, and not the revised Neath version, either. Published in Dublin in 1810. That would be worth a tidy sum, but not in Shepherd's Wash. When we get back to London, maybe. A handful of echoes (eight, and three pennies). Several pieces of the shiniest glim, which any zailor will collect now and then. A notebook, a few folded plans and designs. One is for the whistling shell that they mentioned to me when they first came aboard. In my innocence, I'd pictured something like a trumpet-conch, or a charming engineer's folly like Heron of Alexandria's fountain, which made a whistling bird's call when water ran through it. But no, the shell is an artillery shell, and the whistle it makes is a single downward-scaling note before the blast. 

Salter mentioned having enough pay saved to buy the fifty crates of supplies needed for the Commodore. If that was true, then where the devil did they put the money? 

I lift out the top tray, and a soft blue light overflows from the chest. Souls. A whole crate's worth of souls in their sealed jars, and these are brilliant souls, too—the Cheery Man pays a thousand echoes to smuggle these into London from Polythreme or Mount Palmerston. The souls of poets, or murderers, or old zee-captains. I pick up one of the jars, the light filling the cabin...it's a light that could never hurt me, too young to be sunlight or starlight, fresh as a lotus-bud. 

Once more, I shouldn't be surprised: a bit of spirifage is hardly the worst thing Salter's ever done. But spirifage is a personal business to me. I read the labels on the lids of each soul-jar, searching for my mother's name. I know I won't find it, and I know her soul was very likely a common one, silvery and cheap. But every time I come across a crate of souls, I look. Just in case. Her name isn't in this crate, so I close the lid of the chest again. 

Only then does the question slip into my mind: could Salter have been looking for their own soul?

I open the notebook, because at this point, what difference could it make to violate their privacy one more time? All their lists are here, items starred and underlined many times, most of them with an industrious tick beside them, a few with a cross.

 _\- Reinforce hull plating along starboard bow._  
_\- Speak to Atkins re magazine imperative!!_  
_\- Ask Carrow to order in chilled iron shot (ask nicely!)_

Other entries seem to be logs of experiments, full of excited scrawls and multiple exclamation marks. A few entries look as though they were written in the Iron Republic, based on the way the letters wrestle one another and jumble into an unspeakably meaningful gibberish. But the recent lists are short and sober.

 _\- Unstamped brilliant, Polythreme. No._  
_\- Common, Khan's Shadow. No._  
_\- Silent, Forgotten Quarter. Closer?_  
_\- Coruscating, London (Relicker). good GOD no._  
_\- Unstamped brilliant, Gaider's. No._

On the hunt for something in particular, then. I'm a bit irked that Salter was picking through my cargoes for the Blind Bruiser (he could have made the Cheery Man very cross), but it does seem...that they were looking for a soul. Their own.

The last entry is brief:

_Captn. has sold my gift to the Grand Geode now. Need a forward gun to replace it. Torpedo cannon I suppose?? Not the same at all!! but nothing can be done. Impossible to build another. Or even anything as good! At night I watch the glimfall on the horizon and wonder if a true star will fall along with all the false ones from the Neath-roof. Nothing is left on Aest., not a shard or pebble, and I have LOOKED! Looked until the back of my neck was blistered from the Sun and the ship was ready to leave, full of gathered supplies. I've wondered if a Judgement's Egg could be reverse-engineered with the Red Science (the Rubbery Men on Flute Street must know something if I can find time to investigate) to create a weapon similarly frightening—even if less so—but research at a dead end. (The Nacreous Outcast wouldn't discuss it.) Suppose life must go on & all that but ship feels very naked without the M.M. I only hoped Captn. would love her as I did, such a lovely strange red-dark beast. I miss the hum of its flanks_

 

I sell off the clothes at Fieldhaven, scraping up enough for one more crate of supplies, and we make the hungry trip back to London. There I sell the Bible to the Alarming Scholar, who doesn't take an interest in it herself (himself?) but does know a colleague who will. The Blind Bruiser is surprised to see a crate of brilliant souls before he's even had a chance to ask us to pick them up, but he happily pays for them, calling it "a most serendipitous windfall for us both."

It's enough. The ship is saved, and we can make another run now to pick up honey. Or sphinxstone, or coffee, or whatever will sell. But now I know that after giving in to Zaira, I must follow this through. It must be the honey.

I haven't sold my soul, but I've dirtied it. If it was all for nothing, that's worse.

 

The nightmares, of course, return. In my dreams, the garden is abandoned by the Melliferous Sisters, all the cages grown over with thorns, leaves, fungal blooms and dead branches covered in witches'-butter. But the prisoners are still inside, abandoned by all but the bees, and I can hear the hum, the whispers, the sobbing. The bees are wild now, with no cats and no nuns, and they're starving for memories. I flee through the tangles of bramble and blood roses, stumbling on the exposed roots of dead trees ( _what trees, what could grow here, what besides the roses_ ). Other branches and vines, not quite so dead, rise up to weave a tidy net and trap me—the bees catch up. They take memories I didn't know I had, memories that I couldn't possibly have ever formed myself: _A flight of steps down to ice, bronze lions bearing a weight of snow, a golden spire gleaming in cloud-muffled sunlight. The guns smote the air from the fortress and a cathedral bell tolled elsewhere in the city._ Visions of the Surface, precious things, memories full of starlight and weather and law, stories I could tell myself for comfort if the pain weren't raking them out of my skull...

When I wake, my sheets are damp with sweat and twisted around my ankles. Of course that must have fed the dream. I get up and put on my dressing-gown, unable to stand the sight of my own cabin's familiar darkness, and I wander the ship. 

The Sly Navigator is awake; he's not needed on the bridge ever since we took on the far-more-competent Carnelian Exile, but nevertheless, the bridge is where I find him. I haven't yet made time to bring him to Frostfound as he wished. Soon. He's tucked in a corner with a moth-eaten blanket, pulling on a warm bottle of beer he cadged from the galley and doing some light reading: ticker-tape printouts from the Clockwork Oracle, expired charts that map islands no longer extant, and an old ship's log taken from a Lifeberg's core, which—

"I thought we all agreed we weren't going to read that thing?" I say, extinguishing my candle now that I've reached the light of the Navigator's own. 

"Oh, what's the harm? —I haven't opened it yet," the Navigator admits. "Can't sleep, captain?"

"What could possibly be more restful than a cruise through Saviour's Rocks?" A walk on the deck clears my head after nightmares, sometimes, but I don't fancy the thought of it here. "Perhaps we'll find out if the Tree of Ages is real or just a legend, hm? And then we'll wish we still had a loudmouthed lunatic with grapeshot where their brain should be..."

"You'll find another gunner," says the Navigator. He offers me the bottle and I nearly turn him down, then change my mind.

It's not beer after all but a peculiar decoction of rum, black spices, bitterness, and the traces of a flavour I remember from the wild fruit we gathered at Aestival. Nothing poisonous, I hope; the Navigator has a certain taste for venoms and mild mycotoxins, things that numb the back of the tongue as they go down. "It's not the guns," I tell him, passing the bottle back after taking a long swallow. "Of course I'll find another gunner. And when I've used them up, I'll throw them away too."

He takes the bottle back, tipping it back and forth in the candlelight to watch the dark peligin liquid pitch inside the amber glass. "How d'you reckon you'd like to die?"

"I wouldn't at all, thank you."

"Not a very realistic ambition for a zee-captain, is it?"

"I've never given the matter much thought, apart from the negative subjunctive. Essential that I _not_ be killed in a mutiny, or rammed by Mount Nomad, or murdered by the Blind Bruiser, or..."

He bats this objection aside. "No, no, you've got the whole matter sideways. Decide what death you _do_ want, and go looking for that. A beautiful death, a magnificent death. Then when it comes for you, you throw both arms open and run towards it. You must have seen something in these islands so far that deserves to have you, if it wins the chase?"

I sit down on the floor of the bridge beside his chair, back to the wall and my knees up in front of me. It's colder than I expected these Eastern zees to be. "The Sun, maybe," I murmur finally. My throat feels thick. "Not from a mirrorcatch box, that's too common. But like those skeletons left in Aestival, with the red bird singing...that might be good enough." 

He's right: it does comfort me to think of dying there, amid the lush greenery and the glorious terror of blue sky seen through the hole in the Neath-roof. Or it comforts me for a moment, and then I remember the Cannoneer's joy at finding their black meteorite on the south shores of Aestival. I catch the Navigator's sleeve. "But you see, don't you? That's the worst of it. I didn't even kill them. Those Sisters will keep them alive there in the gardens. As long as they possibly can."

"Hush, hush. You drink the rest of this, captain. You need it more than me. If the Cannoneer's still alive, that means they still have a chance to have the kind of death they'd want. A few obstacles in the way, but still. How would they like to go? Supposing it were possible."

"I don't know, I don't know. I never..." I stop, half-choking on the rum with a sudden burst of laughter. "Oh God, no, I do know. Those ghastly dreadnoughts around the Dawn Machine in the south, the ones that—that _shine_. Whenever we passed one the crew had to drag the daft bastard from the gun-deck. Wanted to see one explode, of course. But I think they'd have liked to die in one of those blasts just as well, if they couldn't sink her."

"There, now, see? All hope is not lost," says the Navigator. "Why, a bit of stealth and trickery, and you might be able to raid their body from the rose garden, and then take it to the Dawn Machine–"

"Sir, _please_ , enough!" I'm laughing and crying at once, because it's a hideously appropriate idea. "If they were here they'd probably suggest firing their body out of that weapon—the one from the Iron Republic, the Icarus in Black. The both of you are absolutely dreadful, I don't know why I bother." I wipe my cheek on my sleeve. "What did you even put in this rum? I can't feel my chin."

"Nothing lethal. Try to rest, captain—long day's zailing tomorrow."

"I can't." I rest my head against the wall, eyes sliding closed. "If I sleep I'll dream. I should be asking the Mechanic to share a bottle with me, not you. Whatever it is he takes to keep from sleeping."

He shakes his head. "A poorer life, with no dreams." But he doesn't chase me off to bed, and instead shakes out the folds in his chart once more, reading aloud the cryptic warnings of the Clockwork Oracle and the Admiralty. I don't recognise all the names, and they seem to be arranged in an impossible order, but that's the zee for you. It calms me anyway to hear them. "Rattsey, Venderbight: northerly 5 or 6, good, becoming poor. Cape Wrath, Antifer, Low Barnet: veering southwest 4 or 5, heavy glimfall, good. Lows just south of Principles, losing their identities. Barnsmore, Caskets, Crying Heights: south wax-wind 8, veering west, blinding, rain of souls becoming moderate..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original version of this piece, I'd mistaken the Cannoneer for a gentleman, due to some pronoun inconsistencies in the game text at the time. I've since corrected the pronouns, and changed the name that I originally gave to the Cannoneer, which was John Salter. I used "Casey" instead, in honour of the Kickstarter backer whose character (Casey Banning) inspired the Cannoneer in-game...but I didn't borrow the surname as well, because this character is still my take on what we learn in the game. So that's where that came from!


	3. each eye will dim but not with rain

At Aestival, I walk the beach again with a shawl wrapped around my head to protect me from the sunlight. Perhaps in time I can go back to filling mirrorcatch boxes, if the Sun-madness fades. I want it not for the money but for the Sun itself...and I suppose that's proof I'm still too mad. The sand on the beach scorches, and the black rock shores to the south are even hotter. The zailors are gathering crates of wild fruit and berries, breadfruit and coconut, even flowers. 

Yes, I could die here. But not today. I need to earn a death like this first.

 

We zail home to London with a hold full of Aestival's bounty, coffee from Port Carnelian, silk from Saviour's Rocks, a few Clay Men from Polythreme. Nothing that will make a fortune. The red honey waits.

In London, I call at the Brass Embassy with a few boxes of common souls. The Urbane Devil makes me wait for an hour, but then calls me into his office.

His furnace-fire is roaring, making the copper panelling on the walls flicker with red light. The Urbane Devil invites me to sit with him by the fire in a chair upholstered with pale man-skin, freckled as if it belonged to a redhead. "Not a bad crop," he remarks, cupping one soul-jar in his hand like a brandy snifter. "Very ordinary, but most of them are. Are you looking to get into a wholesaling business?"

"I'd like to track down one soul in particular," I tell him. My gown sticks to me in the heat, petticoats wilting. "It's very important. I'm willing to pay in kind. Not my own soul," I add quickly. "Mine isn't even very interesting! You'd hardly enjoy it at all. But I can find you some very high-quality souls. Three cratefuls, if you can find me this one."

"Aha." The Urbane Devil smiles, the firelight gleaming in his chrysanthemum-coloured eyes. "You _are_ in the market, how very intriguing. Our policy is not to re-sell souls, you know. We buy, but we do not sell. All souls are ours by rights—this is a matter of record. Nonetheless, a small rearrangement of inventory in the interest of acquiring a high volume of quality souls...we could discuss this, certainly. Our definition of quality begins somewhat above the merely brilliant soul, of course."

"How far above?" I hold my reticule on my lap to keep my hands still. This is spirifage of the highest order, and I tell myself I won't involve myself in the trade any further once I have what I'm looking for.

"Brilliant souls aged through at least three lifetimes—that's when they acquire greater nuance and interest. Souls that have seen the Sun are best; Surface-born is ideal. I believe my assistant has a pamphlet detailing our needs, if you ask outside at the desk." The Urbane Devil rises and goes to a card catalogue against one wall. "Which soul are you interested in buying?"

"A former officer of mine." I keep my voice steady. "Could you...would you be able to answer a theoretical question? It's not related to the soul I wish to purchase."

The Urbane Devil shrugs amiably. "By all means."

"If the original owner of the soul has died, can anything be done for them? Or is it too late?"

"Oh my dear, no. When the body finally dies a true death," says the Urbane Devil, with a quiet relish in his voice, "the soul begins to bloom. I hope you don't have any silly thoughts about setting the souls of the departed free, do you? It simply doesn't work that way. One cannot put the flower back in the bud."

I don't understand this explanation, and no doubt he's lying. But it's almost an answer, and it's almost comforting. I nod. "Very well. No, the officer I'm looking for isn't dead. Yet. I'd like to have the soul, that's all. You can understand that, can't you?"

" _I_ understand it perfectly, yes. Capital, capital. Do you have the officer's name?"

"Casey Salter." 

The Urbane Devil shows a flicker of reaction to the name. "Indeed?"

"Indeed."

He opens one of the little brass drawers in the card catalogue, a wisp of smoke and dust floating out, and begins to flip through the records with his long, slender fingers. "What a fascinating choice. Yes, I do remember our friend Salter. I'm afraid their soul won't be cheap—it was of a remarkable quality."

"Was it really?" It startles me to think so. "How much—I mean, what was its quality?"

"Oh, difficult to describe." He closes the drawer and opens a different one. "Quiet, pale, bright. Serene, in its way. The soul is not the personality, you understand. It's a spark, a spore, a seed. One's experiences and feelings will affect the soul's savour and brightness, and vice versa, but they're not identical. A very good person can have a tinny, flavourless soul. A wicked person can have a core of unexpected innocence." He pulls a file card from the drawer. "Of course you must know about Salter's relation with us in the Iron Republic."

"I know that you worked together."

"They understood our desires and aims very well, for a human. Perhaps in time they could have become—well, no sense in discussing hypotheticals. But they drew many admirers in the Republic, many hopeful buyers, and their soul went for a good price. Surface-born at noon in the full light of summer, wonderful. And in Belfast, which is a delicious _terroir_ of faith and violence. But besides that, they had such joy. We do appreciate joy, you know." The Urbane Devil taps the card against his palm thoughtfully, and then says, "Salter sold directly to the Embassy, which is a wise choice. Private trades can go so dreadfully wrong. We have the soul in our vaults here, but I can't let it go for less than seven crates of brilliants."

The number chokes me. " _Seven?_ "

"We're happy to hold it for you," says the Urbane Devil with a smile, his neat white teeth flashing. "At an interest rate of one crate common souls per week. Very reasonable! We understand that good spirifage takes time. It's such a personal business. Interested?"

It _is_ a reasonable sort of arrangement, for devils. It will take time to make enough runs to amass seven crates of brilliant souls, but as the Carnelian Exile said, patience is the only virtue. 

I agree, and shake the Urbane Devil's hot, dry hand. He sounds a buzzer on the wall whose sound vibrates through my bones and teeth, and calls in his assistant, a junior devil who arrives with paperwork. Always paperwork.

"I'd knock it down to three crates if you'd be willing to part with your own, you know," the Urbane Devil says, leaning over me as I bend to sign the papers. "Salt and poetry and guilt, it's a very toothsome combination."

I don't even pause. "No, thank you, sir."

"Ah, well. Had to ask, didn't I? Will you take my card? Tell Salter we all remember them warmly down in the old country, next time you see them."

 

It takes weeks before we're ready for another run to the Isle of Cats. The Blind Bruiser has tedious little requests, and I don't want to sever our business relationship quite yet; knowing where the Cheery Man is sourcing his souls tells me which networks I shouldn't be trying to tap yet. The Admiralty wants information too, and I like to keep the Admiral happy. When the Constables search the ship, it's handy to be able to drop names.

But when I have a nice cushion of echoes and a sturdy crew, I set a course south. I've taken a further precaution: a wealthy gentleman in London who lost his wife to the honey-gardens has financed the rental of a few professional thugs. Two Clay Men, too, who aren't very useful as private mercenaries (they don't think on their feet terribly well) but which I might need to carry my wounded back to the ship. It may not be enough; if the Melliferous Sisters are anything like the nuns of Abbey Rock, they may be too dangerous to attack. But it's the best shot I have. 

I'm taking Salter's body back, and I'm buying their soul, and I'll fire soul and body both out of a bl___y cannon at the next glorious dreadnought I see around the Dawn Machine. Just let anyone try to stop me.

We dock at Port Cavendish. Zaira meets us at the Abbey, ready to take a walk through the gardens. She has a new request, which she explains as we walk together. Another addition to her garden, this one a gift for her master, Leopold. No, this one needn't be one of my crew. Shouldn't be, in fact. Leopold loves the Surface. He misses it. He wants a poor blighter taken straight from the docks of the Cumaean Canal. 

It costs me nothing to accept, since I won't be keeping my promise or ever returning. "We will find someone appropriate, Lady. Is—was the honey satisfactory, the vials you made from my officer? When we were last here?"

"Whoever do you mean? Oh, was your officer a very tall Maasai gentleman? No? A Welshman with a beautiful baritone? Wrong twice in a row, mercy. Please forgive me, it's not as though I don't take an interest," says Zaira, squeezing my arm affably. "I have trouble remembering which memories belong in which places. I can tell you that the honey's been magnificent altogether for the last few weeks, not a bad batch. We might have some of your officer's honey left, in fact, if you'd like to try. Would you?"

The thought makes my skin crawl, but I'd like to know where she keeps the stuff; it could save Salter some pain if I could take the vials and keep them from being sold on to the users. "I'd be very interested, yes."

Zaira smiles and leads the way to the outbuilding where the honey is spun from the combs and bottled. Pausing at the door, she turns to point above the roses at the Neath-roof, where a red glow has flushed the dark for a moment. "Look there, the Dawn Machine. It's almost like a real sunrise—I've only seen them in honey-memories, but still. Sometimes I wish I could tend this garden in sunlight, to see how the changes in the sky and the wind would touch the roses. Doesn't that sound exotic? But I love my garden as it is. It's peaceful. You might not think so—do you? No. You will, I think. The flowers are innocent, and the bees are in love with the flowers, and the prisoners will never do another wrong thing in their lives."

I give the signal to my henchmen, dropping my handkerchief on the garden path outside the door and bending to pick it up again. "The prisoners never give you trouble?"

"Hardly at all. Although, do you know, that reminds me of a story!" For a moment, Zaira's tone is eerily reminiscent of Salter's. "At least I think it does. I was a prisoner here once myself! Difficult to credit, isn't it? But I escaped. I stole my own honey, the honey made of my own mind, and I drank it down. So sweet, my own memories, so sweet. I drank my mind back, strained through sugared sunlight." She repeats this a few times, mantra-like, as she searches for a bottle in the rack beside the honey-spinner. "I drank my own memories back. Yes. Where was I? Well, I was whole again, that's the end of that story. Or else it was someone else. It really might have been, now that I think of it. Hmm. Looks as though we haven't decanted much from this bottle yet. Only one vial missing." 

She hands over the bottle, gleaming honey the colour of poppies. A paper label is glued to it, copperplate handwriting: _Casey Salter, ship's gunner, London. 5000 echoes._ "May I buy it outright?" I whisper, throat dry. "All of it. To remember them. That's allowed, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Sister Renata arranges direct sales." Zaira turns to open the door again, and comes face to veil with six bruisers from Wolfstack Docks.

She's surprised, but she's quick—she pulls a stiletto from her sleeve and has it between the ribs of one thug before they can lay a hand on her. The others overwhelm her with sheer size and numbers, though, even as the stabbed one crumples to the stones of the garden path. 

"Keys, cap'n," says one of the thugs when he has the ring of silver keys away from Zaira. The others hold her still while she squirms for leverage against them. Her veil is askew, and I notice that there is a shadowed emptiness where her eyes should be, and livid scars all around. The sort a nectar-maddened lamplighter bee might leave, when it burrowed into a brain. Evidently her memory of being a prisoner here was more than just a honey-mazed delusion.

"Now, the lot of you keep your 'air on," one bruiser says to the other sisters that gather. "Cap'n 'ere wants one prisoner, and once we get 'em, we'll be off and your mistress doesn't have to bleed, see? Neither does any of you."

The nuns hiss in fury and circle around, but I have my crew and my henchmen. This could work. We're close. I cradle the bottle of honey in the crook of my arm and run for the row of cages where they're holding Salter.

I wonder for a moment if I'll be able to find it. I remember that it was the southwest corner of the garden, but the cages are shadowed and dark, each one so overgrown by roses that it's difficult to see inside. There isn't much time.

And then I hear it: someone close by is whistling. A bouncing slip jig, the kind I used to hear when we passed close to Aestival, or the Mangrove College, or the Iron Republic. Places full of a kind of life. The whistle is cracked and windy now, missing the higher notes, repeating the same motif over and over, but I know it's my Cannoneer.

I cut my hands up tearing the roses away from the cage's lock, blood beading from the scratches as I fumble with one key after another. Salter doesn't even look at me, huddled in the dark of the cage, a space only about four by four feet, five in height. The cage seems to be dug from a bank of higher ground, the rose-roots working their way inside, with the steel bars sunk firmly in the bedrock. It smells of dark soil, brimstone, roses, and unwashed human flesh.

Wrong key. Wrong key. Wrong key. Right key. The lock opens.

I swing the door open and hurl the padlock overhand as far as I can, far over the hedges and out of sight. As one of my Clay Men holds the door open, I climb inside. "Salter—Salter, it's me, it's the captain. It's Captain Miskimmin. Look at me, just look at me for a moment—"

They do, and I wish they hadn't. The bees have burrowed deep into their face, straight through their eye-sockets. Their eyelids sag over empty space, blank red flesh where their eyes were. Their big dark eyes. The skin around them is practically shredded, some of it halfway through a dirty healing process and some still freshly bloodied. 

They don't even recognise my voice, speaking in their good ear, because they don't answer.

"It's all right," I whisper numbly, then say it louder in case a part of them can still hear. "It's all right, Casey. We're taking you back to the ship. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

The Clay Man picks Salter up in his big hands, gentle in spite of his size, and hefts them over one shoulder like a mother with a gassy baby. I don't want to try dosing Salter with the honey yet, in the event that the process takes time. Better to do it on the ship, with the Brisk Campaigner watching over the procedure. 

"Back to the ship," I order the crew. "While we still can."

 

The Brisk Campaigner is appalled at Salter's condition, especially so when one lamplighter bee straggles out of their left eye socket and wheels crazily around the sick bay until the Clay Man claps his hands to kill it. 

"Nothing to be done but clean, debride, and suture all this," says the Campaigner, pointing to the chewed-up flesh of Salter's eye sockets. "Total enucleation of both eyes, so my best medical suggestion there is...a blindfold. If they don't mind looking like a sorrow-spider cultist. I've seen some nice prosthetic eyes made of glim, but that's up to them. If they ever get their mind back, that is. You seriously intend to subject this person to a red honey experience? And you think that will _help?_ "

"Can the situation actually get any worse?"

The Campaigner shrugs. "Perhaps it will merely induce the excruciating agony that red honey victims feel when the honey is drunk, but it won't bring their memories back. Perhaps Zaira was attacked by the lamplighter bees but saved by the other sisters before they could completely harvest her. Perhaps she's a deluded, honey-mazed addict with no reliable testimony to offer about anything at all, much less the best treatment for her victims. _Perhaps_ —"

"Please, doctor." My hands are wrapped in bandages for the scratches, and I think that this is a glimpse of my eventual future in the tomb-colonies. If I'm lucky. Unlucky zee-captains never go to Venderbight at all, only to the Fathomking's Hold. "Let this be my responsibility, if it fails. I'll see to it that they die well. And if it works, you might write a treatise about the rehabilitation of red honey victims."

"I'm far too busy with my research on animescence," she scolds me, but relents. "Try the honey _sparingly._ If they show distress, discontinue it at once and call me. I can make them comfortable with laudanum, if nothing else." She pauses, with a bit of rare discomfort. "I shall leave you in privacy."

"Thank you, doctor." I still have the bottle of honey in my arms, and I fumble to break the seal with my bandaged hands. 

Salter is asleep, or in some state that looks like sleep. The Campaigner and her surgeon's mate have washed them and bound their eyes with bandages to keep the wounds clean. I'm not quite sure I even recognise them this way. Their dark hair is damp and pushed back from their forehead, which is part of why they look so unlike themselves, so I brush a few strands forward again. Better. And yes, that's their mouth, though they're not smiling and they have deep teethmarks in their lower lip. 

They're not my Cannoneer anymore. 

I don't know how to make them take the honey, or how much they need. Zaira made it sound like she guzzled the whole bottle, but that would choke them. The smell of the opened bottle is dizzying, sweet and floral. 

The scar on their wrist is exactly like my mother's. I suppose they're all the same. It looks like a Correspondence sigil, but it doesn't burn to look at it, so that might be a mere aesthetic choice on the part of the devils. The scar is white on Salter's skin, slightly raised and silky against my fingers. I wonder if they would have kissed me, that night when they dined at my table. If I hadn't pushed away. Had I pursued them then, I might have forgot to be afraid of all the things they've done; by now I'm just as tainted as they are, if I wasn't already. Were they different, back when they still had a soul? 

I coax their mouth open the same way I would with a dog, my fingers squeezing just before the joints of their jaw, and they open their lips without waking.

The smallest finger on my right hand escaped the thorns and isn't bandaged, so I dip it in the honey and touch it to Salter's lips.

They stir, but don't quite wake. They don't disappear, either, the way people normally slip away into honey-dreams. I give them another fat drop, sticky and red on my finger, with much the same effect. 

This might not work, I think. My stomach sinks. _Wake up. Wake up. Have you any idea what I spent on getting you back?_ I want to shake them, as if they're just another drunk zailor who needs to get dragged up for duty.

Instead I give them another dribble of honey, this one more generous. And something happens.

They let out a shapeless cry, as if waking from a nightmare, and surge up suddenly to sit up, hands groping for me—no, for the bottle. "Take it, take it," I tell them, giving them the bottle and holding them by the shoulders as they force the honey down, gasping and shuddering. 

"I can't see," they choke out, when they can get a deep enough breath to speak. The bottle is empty, though its sides are still sticky with honey. "I can't see, where am I, what's happening—"

"You're aboard the _Passe-Partout_ ," I tell them, my hand on their shoulder. "Do you remember? Do you remember my voice?"

They nod, shaking. "Captain."

It worked.

"You're in the sick bay. You're hurt." My voice cracks. "I'm sorry, Casey. You might never forgive me, but I'm sorry. I cared for all the wrong things, and now—but you're here now. I'll take you back to London. Or the Iron Republic, or wherever you'd rather go. I'd take you all the way to Irem if that's where you wanted to be." I wipe the traces of honey from my fingers with one of the Campaigner's immaculate towels. "And I'm going to get your soul back, too, just...it might begin to make it up to you. Or it might not. I may sell the ship and retire. It wouldn't be the first time I'd failed and gone back home with my tail between my legs. Father remembers my illustrious career as a poet very fondly, no doubt."

I'm talking too much, because they've never been this quiet in the time I've known them.

"Did you get that torpedo cannon from Caminus Yards yet?" they ask finally.

"We've just been using the deck-gun."

"Well. Start with the torpedo cannon and then we'll worry about my soul later." They sink back against the pillows, picking at the bandages round their eyes until I gently move their hand away. "Why did you do it?"

They don't ask the question with venom, or with much energy at all, but then they must be exhausted. I keep their hand in mine, since they haven't pulled it away, but it takes me a minute to be able to answer. "My mother sold her soul when I was a child," I begin. "She needed the money. Father was a zee-captain himself, and he'd be away for weeks or months while we lived hand-to-mouth, waiting for him to come home. We were skint and she needed to feed us, so she sold her soul. I think she'd been in debt for years before that. But she wasn't the same after. She stopped...she stopped calling me sweetheart, and she didn't kiss us goodnight when we went to bed. She stopped caring about things. I know that all the soulless aren't like that, but when I saw the scar on your wrist—" I paused to clear my throat. "I thought that it explained a lot of things. I thought you must feel things less, and that's why it's so easy for you to do what you do."

"I don't understand."

"I thought there was something wrong with a person who takes such pleasure in destruction." I can't look at them. Not even at the blank white gauze where their eyes were. "As if it's my business. As if I haven't done terrible things myself. But I always told myself that at least I _felt_ terrible, as if that changed the outcome in the slightest."

A silence. Then: "I thought you liked me."

"I did. But you didn't make sense to me, and I was afraid. And greedy." My guts are twisting. "I do like you, Casey."

They take a jagged breath, and I realise that if they had eyes left they'd be weeping now, and my vision blurs too. "Would you bring the doctor back, captain?"

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes." They take their hand back from me and turn their head away slightly.

I get up to find the Campaigner. There will be no forgiveness tonight, of course. Maybe never. 

 

One week later, after a restorative stop at Adam's Way, Salter is on deck at night, a stick in their hand and the ship's trained zee-bat squeaking on their shoulder. The bat is not trained for this type of labour, and keeps flapping off into the dark in search of other islands, restrained by a twitch on its jesses.

They are still not the Cannoneer. When I see them from the corner of my eye, I glance at them twice: a bandaged, unsmiling stranger with dark hair, wrapped in a new coat that we bought from Peleghast's—they accepted my apology for selling their things with a single distant nod. "Of course you did."

Other than that, I haven't spoken to them. Now, as we sail north and the air grows cooler, fog rolling in, I go out on deck to stand with them by the rail. I stand on their left side. "Have you given any more thought to which port you'd like to land at?"

"Hello to you too."

"Good evening, Citizen."

They incline their head. The bat circles around again to land on their arm, then moves to hang upside down from the rail. Salter's hands are wrapped in gauze too, and of course they are: when the bees swarmed them they would have used their hands to try to shield their face. "Would you bring me to the Avid Horizon?"

"I'd make the passage down Adam's Way into the Mountain's blood if you asked me to, Citizen." But it's an odd request. "What do you hope to find so far north?"

"Monster-hunter's eyes. We found more than just the one, remember? And the curator would only pay for the first one we brought back."

This sounds like one of the Cannoneer's typical foolhardy ideas, which is encouraging, but their enthusiasm is muted and grim. Which frightens me, truth be told. "The curator said—"

"The curator said it would make him no more blind. Not 'no less blind'. Important distinction. But you saw that the eye still...it had sight of some kind left in it. The fellows in Flute Street might be able to take that further. I want—" They stopped, struggling for a moment to speak. "I want to see well enough to work, Captain. Whether on this ship or any other. I want to hear the cannons speak."

I've heard stories of what the Rubbery Men in Flute Street can do. Very vague stories. Not many Londoners follow up on those tales. "The Magician has his hook. The Diplomat in London, they wear a patch over a missing eye too. It's not the end of everything. How...how does Zaira see, do you suppose? She must."

"You know Zaira better than I do, captain. I only met her once. Maybe she's taken so much from other people that little by little it all adds up to vision." Salter shakes their head. "No, that's gibberish, isn't it? I sound like the Carnelian Exile. I wonder if she'd tell me where she bought her glasses? They're quite fetching."

I allow myself a cautious laugh, and reach down to scritch the zee-bat's soft fur with one finger. It peeps with pleasure. "The Brisk Campaigner suggested a blindfold, if you'd like to stop by Saviour's Rocks and try the silks."

"Oh, I think only Parabola-linen's good enough for me, don't you? I'll become quite the fashion-plate in my retirement. The talk of Venderbight."

"You're a long way from being packed off to the Grand Sanatorium, Casey," I tell them gently. "This ghastly idea you have about the monster-hunter's eyes may even work. It seems that way in the Neath sometimes—the most awful and unlikely notions are the ones that succeed. I thought that going back to the Isle of Cats for you was one of those ideas, in fact."

They pick the bat up and cup it in their hands for a moment, then let it swoop out over the dark zee, a spiralling flight at the limits of its tether. "Why _did_ you come back for me?"

"I owed an officer better than that." I stop and clear my throat, looking up at the bat until it disappears in the dark. "I planned to take your body from the garden and give you a better death. The kind that might have made you smile."

"Good God." But they do smile, ever so minutely, the corners of their mouth turning upwards. "What did you have in mind?"

"I thought you might enjoy the Dawn Machine's dreadnoughts. Up close. Fired out of the Artificer's cannon."

Their smile widens. There's something private about that smile now, perhaps because they aren't looking at me as they listen but rather gazing sightlessly out at the horizon; it's like the smile of someone thinking of something funny, more than their old incandescent grin. "What a lovely idea."

"I did so hope you would think so." I could tell them other things. I could reveal that I ransacked their cabin enough to learn of their search for their soul, or that I read their private notebook and discovered that they thought of the Memento Mori as a beautiful gift for me, not merely an engine of destruction. One day I will, when the wounds have closed further.

Instead I touch their arm as the bat lands again. "There's a jillyfleur ahead of us. The light's skimming the tops of the wavelets but it hasn't sighted us yet, as we're zailing with the prow-lamp out."

"You should kill it, we'll be in its range soon enough."

The nasty things are barely worth the shot—at best, we can salvage some not-quite-edible meat from them to amuse the Poissonnier. But jillyfleurs are swift and agile, and they deal a remarkable amount of damage when they ram the ship. "We've only the deck gun."

They give that private smile again, and take my arm. "Take me and I'll show you."

I lead them to the deck gun, where Gunner Atkins is half-asleep at his post with his partner.

"Look alive, there, Atkins. We're teaching the captain how to get on with Lucille. This is Lucille," Salter tells me, patting the barbette of the deck gun. "One year old, just a baby Hellthrasher from Caminus Yards, likes to jam if the gunners haven't shaved that morning. It's true! Not a superstition at all. That's why she likes me best. How are you this evening, Atkins?" Salter reaches out to brush the remaining fingers of their left hand over the gunner's cheek. "Tolerable, tolerable. Smooth enough to give Lucille a friendly kiss, I believe..."

By the time they've introduced me to all of Lucille's personal quirks and details, the jillyfleur is long since out of sight, and Salter tells us to wait just south of Murray's Strait. No, an auroral megalops won't do. One could kill those with a pea-shooter. We wait until another blue-glowing jillyfleur spins in sight, and the two gunners crank the deck-gun into position, exchanging a good deal of technical terminology about visibility and wind speed. Salter corrects the calculations twice; even though they can't see the target, they know when the mathematics are wrong. When the gun is loaded and ready, they offer me the firing foot-pedal. "Give 'er, captain."

One of the gunners has brought me a pair of ear defenders, but when I hitch my skirt up and press the pedal down, I'm afraid the noise will deafen me anyway. The gun goes off with a bone-shaking boom and a cloud of cordite smoke, and there's a resultant splash in the zee that I can't hear at all. Salter and the others cheer. I'm trembling from an echoing vibration in my hands and feet, but in the bubbling zee there's a spreading redness that looks oily, a rainbow of opalescent colours that's slow to disperse. 

I take Salter back to the rail at the bow to watch the jillyfleur's dissolution. "There," I say after a few moments—louder than normal, my ears still ringing. "There, that's the face. It always forms a face just before it sinks away."

The face looks like the great stone monument of the island of Visage, the Flourishing-of-Years that seems to be always gazing up at the roof of the Neath. No one knows why the dying jillyfleur looks like that ancient stone face, and I never come any closer to understanding no matter how many times I watch. A mystery of the zee. Salter stands beside me as the face slips down into the peligin depths, and I know that I haven't lost my Cannoneer completely. 

The sea does not forgive, but people do. And maybe in the end, all shall be well.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. My [profile](http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Gaetano%20Sciarra) on FL, for any players seeking acquaintances for chess or other pastimes. (I'm not fussy, send anything you like my way.)


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